"Sex is the consolation you have when you can't have love." -Gabriel Garcia Marquez

85 days sober My desk jolts forward a quarter of an inch as someone sinks gracelessly into the seat behind me, knocking their desk into the back of my chair. The words I will kill you if you bump my chair again, you asshole are already on the tip of my tongue, but a chin hooks over my shoulder and a warm, familiar voice says in my ear, “It would appear that congratulations are in order.” It takes everything in me not to turn my head and move straight into a kiss. I grip the edge of my desk until Travis has sunk back into his own seat, then turn to face him and say, in a tone of forced calm, “Why’s that?” “Um,” he says, disbelieving, “Wow, I have no idea. Maybe because the cast list for your play was posted this morning?” What I mean to say is, Did I get a part? What comes out is, “You checked the cast list just to see if I got a part?” “No,” he says, almost before I’m done asking the question. I raise my eyebrows, and he relents, “Okay, yes. Do you want to know what part you got?” “Yeah, right after you tell me when you checked the list,” I say. There is no response. Something warm and stupid is blooming in my stomach, and I can’t swallow down my smile. “Did you check it when you first got into school? You totally did, didn’t you? That’s the first thing you did this morning. You came in and went right to the announcement board to see if I got a part in our retarded gender-bending school play.” Through gritted teeth, Travis repeats, “Do you want to know what part you got?” I shrug. “Only if it’s a good one. If it’s some chorus bullshit, I can just check that out for myself later.” He opens his mouth to reply, but at that moment, Mr. Esteves calls for attention, and I reluctantly turn to face the blackboard. I spend the better part of the class drawing kangaroos in the margin of my notebook—just because—and eating gummy bears, meeting Mr. Esteves’ glare with blank eyes until he gives up on the idea that I’m going to put them away. One seat over, a girl named Chelsea keeps blinking at me; I’m almost certain she’s trying to figure out whether or not I’m stoned. I smile beatifically at her, and she looks away. Travis kicks my chair leg. At first, I assume he’s just trying to get me to actually pay attention—and really, why? Trial law is such a bullshit class, we haven’t even been assigned our teams for the mock trial competition yet, we haven’t done anything—but then I feel something digging into the small of my back. Without bothering to give it much consideration, I reach back to take whatever he’s handing me. His cell phone. When Mr. Esteves turns around to write something on the board, I look down at the phone screen. It’s a mediocre-quality picture of a white sheet of paper covered in Times New Roman. The cast list. I want to turn around and ask why he bothered to take a picture of it, but instead, I opt to read straight down the list. The first line informs me that all cast members must attend the first read-through on Tuesday, and that anyone interested in helping out with crew should also attend for a brief informational session. Then, after that, the cast list.Josslyn Pryce as Dani Zuko. No surprise there; Joss seems crazy uptight, but her audition had been fantastic. John Nielson as Andy Olsen. Again, unsurprising. His song had been awesome. Or, songs, rather, since he’d been the other one to audition twice. His voice rises unbidden in my mind, Usually, that just means they’re considering us for the same part. That’s what he’d said, right? Had I actually had a shot at getting the lead, even over a ton of other people who have actually bothered to give a shit about drama club for years? And there, the third name down, Garen Anderson as Bobby Rizzo. A main role, multiple solos, ultimate fucking bragging rights to any of those tools who glared at me for not singing Broadway. Because I am petty, I read down until I find Gabriel Alberti as Martin Maraschino. Swallowing a grin, I pass the phone back to Travis, who leans in again to whisper, “Told you you’d be great.” His lips brush the shell of my ear. Well. Alright then. 86 days sober The read-through is a shitshow. Only half the cast members seem to have remembered to show up, I end up getting stuffed into a chair next to Gabe, and Nate Holliday keeps panicking whenever a missing cast member has a line. If only to shut him up, I offer to read some of the other times as well, though he makes the mistake of telling me to read for Christine, the girl who will be playing Nikki. It’s fine, up until we get to a scene that rapidly dissolves into me talking to myself, worrying about whether or not I should wear a condom when I fuck myself, so that I don’t get myself pregnant. I can’t take it seriously; no one can. When Nate complains that I’m reading everything in monotone that makes it impossible to tell which character’s lines I’m reading, I immediately switch to reading all of the Nikki lines in a much sassier monotone two octaves higher than my own. Across the room, Joss Pryce loses it. “If no one is going to take this seriously, we don’t need to have a play at all,” Nate snaps, throwing his heavily-marked script down. I try to straighten my face, but too many people are still snickering, so I settle for flashing Nate my most charming, self-deprecating smile and saying, “Sorry, man, I was just trying to lighten the mood. I’ll take it seriously.” I totally won’t, but he doesn’t need to know what I’m thinking. It’s another hour before we’re dismissed. Most of the people stand up and amble out into the hall, but I stay awkwardly put. I still don’t know any of them, so it would feel strange to follow so closely. It would feel even stranger to try to engage them in conversation on the way out of the building, especially since I know that most of them must still just be vaguely wondering why the cokehead bothered to show up to rehearsal. Surprisingly, though, only a few seconds pass before someone near me says, “I swear to God, I thought Nate was going to punch you in the face when you used that voice.” I look up from my script. Joss is hovering near the edge of the table I’m sitting at, as though she hasn’t quite made up her mind about whether I’m safe to stand near. I offer her a wry smile. “That’s not terribly shocking. From what I hear, I’ve got a very punchable face.” She responds with a polite half-smile, but doesn’t say anything. It’s just a conversation; this shouldn’t be so hard. I’ve never had trouble talking to people before, never been the guy who hangs out at the edges of a group without befriending anyone. I clear my throat and try, “How many plays have you done here, other than this one?” “All of them?” she says, shrugging. “I’m a senior now, and this is the fourth year in a row that I’ll be doing both plays, the fall one and the spring one.” I want to ask her if she always gets the leading role, but I don’t have to. The glint in her eyes tells me that she must; it’s the same look I can feel on my face when someone finds out I play guitar and asks the asshole question, So, are you any good? My response is always a smirk, that look that Joss has got right now, and the words, Yeah, I’m good. There’s a brief knock on the doorframe, even though rehearsal’s over and the door’s still open. I turn and can’t stop a smile when I see Travis hovering just outside. He hitches his chin at me. “Hey. I thought you’d be here.” “Makes sense, considering I’m the one in the play. Stalker,” I add the insult as an afterthought. He cocks his head to the side a bit and says, “It’s not stalking if I have a reason to be here. I told you I might be giving up track for something with a few less douchebags involved with it, and well, that Nate kid said they were looking for more people to do stage crew.” “Your obsessive-compulsive need for order will be very beneficial,” I say, even though what I mean is, I’m glad I get to spend more time with you, even if we’re both pretending it’s totally normal that you would suddenly decide that senior year is the reasonable time to join a random club at a school you’ve attended since you were fourteen. You are cute, I still want to touch you, like me back. “And I’m sure that your obsessive-compulsive need for attention will be beneficial to your performance as well,” he says. I’m choosing to interpret that as, I totally like you back, let’s go screw around in the backseat of your car. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and find a text from Jamie. Too fucking thrilled to be seeing you on Saturday. What are your thoughts regarding me greeting you with a blowjob in the middle of the train station? I smile and tap out a reply, Ooh, stop, you’re making me hard. Am equally thrilled (re: seeing you and public fornication). Will text you that night once I’m done with lame mom dinner. I hit send and glance up, saying, “Sorry. James. We’re supposed to be hanging out this weekend.” “Are you going there, or is he coming here?” Travis asks, somewhat warily. Understandable. The first time he and Jamie were in the same state, I came back to try to ruin his relationship. The second time, Jamie essentially strong-armed him into going to visit me in rehab, something Alex has only recently admitted to me. It makes sense that Travis would kind of cringe at the idea of Jamie being in Connecticut at all. “I’m going into the city. My mom wants to get dinner and talk about my life—like she doesn’t already hear enough of that from her creepy, constant phone calls to my dad—and then Jamie and I are going out,” I say. Then, feeling a little thrill as I say it, I admit, “We’re um… sort of celebrating, I guess. This Saturday is my ninetieth day clean and sober.” Joss jumps a little, like she doesn’t think she was supposed to hear that. Whatever—I’m glad she heard. It’s nice to know that some of the idiots around this school might actually find out that I’m doing well these days. If Travis notices her reaction, he doesn’t point it out. Instead, he grins, bright and genuine, and says, “Yeah, I know.” I’m about to ask him if he knows my sobriety date in the same way he just happened to check the cast list, the same way he just happened to show up today after rehearsal. Before I can open my mouth, though, my phone rings, alerting me to a call from Jamie. I hold up one finger, signaling Travis to wait, then answer, “Hey, Jamie.” “What lame mom dinner?” “I told you, my mom’s making me go out to eat before I can do anything else. She’s meeting me at the train station and everything, like a fucking predator.” Jamie huffs. “Does Marian not realize that she is cutting into valuable James-and-Garen time? Seriously, do I need to send this bitch a schedule?” “Pretty sure she’d cut your balls off, if you did that,” I say. I glance back up. Left to their own devices and with nothing much else to do in the room, Travis and Joss have taken to making awkward small talk. Figuring I can leave them to that for another minute or two, I say, “So, do you have any big and exciting plans for us this weekend?” “I’ve told you, Garen, you can’t just bring your cock up in conversation like that. God, here I am trying to talk to you about your visit, and you just want to talk about things that are big and exciting.” I roll my eyes. “I swear to god, you need to get a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, or some better fucking pay-per-view channels, because your lines get cheesier and more porntastic every time we talk.” “I know,” he admits. “About the lines, that is. We’ll talk about the trainwreck that is my romantic life when you’re here on Saturday. Obviously your little interlude with your own stepbrother will forever take the cake of inappropriateness, but I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something in the water in that state, because my current… situation is a bit less than ideal. And involves way more people than it should.” “Sounds like my friends are rubbing off on you.” “You have no idea.” I don’t catch anything he says after that, because Joss laughs then, a clear, pretty laugh. Travis seems to be stopping himself from grinning only by biting his thumbnail. But… he only does that when he’s nervous. “I have to go,” I say very slowly, not appreciating a single second of the sinking feeling I’m suddenly unable to escape. “I’ll see you this weekend, yeah?” I end the call and make a sort of big procession out of putting my phone in my backpack, just to see if I can draw some of Travis’ attention away from Joss. He has barely blinked. I cough, and he finally looks over, edges of his mouth still quirked up in a half-smile at something Joss said. I say, “I’m going to head out. Want me to walk you to your car?” “Um,” he says. He blinks at me, then looks at Joss, then reddens a little bit and says, “I’m okay. I’m just going to, uh—” He makes a half-hearted gesture towards Joss, an indication that he plans to hang back and talk to her some more. I don’t get why. She’s barely nice. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow, okay?” Without bothering to reply, I walk away, feeling stupid and unsatisfied.88 days sober I haven’t slept since Monday night. My sleeping schedule has been shaky at best since rehab, but this is drawing me closer to the breaking point. I’ve been awake since six thirty on Tuesday morning, the day of the first read-through. Fifty hours awake. Fifty hours of trying to doze off, only to have something jolt me back awake. In the first days of rehab, my insomnia had come from cravings. Not physical cravings, but psychological ones. The dull ache in the back of my brain, the constant hunger for something to take the edge off. After rehab, the problem had been the fear, and the questions—can I do this? Can I stay clean? What if I fuck up? Will LRC take me back if I relapse? Will my dad kick me out again? Will any of my friends forgive me for what I’ve done? Will they forgive me later, for the things I know I’ll eventually do? Now, though, there’s only one question rolling over and over in my mind. Why did he look at her like that? 89 days sober Half an hour before the final bell rings, I almost black out. The world is going dark at the edges, and my hands feel numb, and I’m just so fucking tired. I’ve been sitting in the back of the music room for twenty minutes already, grading quizzes according to the neatly printed answer sheet, but all the words are blurring together now. Without bothering to explain myself under Jeff’s questioning gaze, I stand up and walk out into the hall, trying to shake some feeling back into my limbs. I jump up and down a few times, rub my eyes, then go upstairs to see if I can wheedle some coffee out of whoever’s in the teacher’s lounge. I’m not a teacher, obviously, but Jeff keeps sending me into the lounge to make copies of stuff for him. I barely ever get glared at anymore, even when I flop down in one of the armchairs to wait for the machine to finish running off worksheets. This afternoon, the room is empty and the door is locked, but all I want is some fucking coffee. It’s not too much to ask. I’m so tired that I walk into the nearest empty classroom to snag a few paper clips off the teacher’s desk, drop to my knees in front of the teacher’s lounge door, and pick the lock. Coffee has never tasted so fucking perfect. When I get home after school, I make it halfway across the living room before I pass out. I’m conscious again in seconds, because there’s nothing to jolt you back to reality like staggering into the side of a couch and then collapsing on hardwood floor. For several minutes, I lie there, trying not to cry. By now, I’ve been awake for almost ninety hours, and my eyes are burning, the way they did during my brief experimentation with colored contact lenses—because really, there were only so many times I could hear the words “oh wow, your eyes are so green!” before I was just over it and bought myself a pair of dull brown lenses—during sophomore year. My hands are shaking as I press the heels of my hands to my closed eyelids. I don’t understand what’s wrong with me. I don’t understand why I can’t just sleep like a normal person, why I can’t lie down and close my eyes without seeing Gabe’s supercilious smirk, or the way Joss kept tilting her head towards Travis every time she made a joke, like it was just for him, or the way Travis’ lip kept catching between his teeth for half-seconds at a time, nervous but wanting. I manage to stand long enough to drag my still mostly limp body downstairs and collapse on my bed. All I want is to be rested enough to stomach dinner and interrogation with my mother tomorrow, and to enjoy going out with Jamie afterward. Sleep still doesn’t come. Even now, it lurks just out of reach, getting chased away by my inability to shut my brain up. This is so much worse than even the most unbearable drug crash I’ve ever had, and an enormous part of me wants to trudge back upstairs and drive myself to the nearest liquor store to get some whiskey or something. Just a finger of it so I can feel warm and sedated enough to knock myself out. Instead, I roll over to bury my face in the pillows and wait for sleep. And wait. And wait. And wait.90 days sober Mom is waiting in the Main Concourse when I get off the train at Grand Central. It’s only been a little over a week since she’s seen me, but she hugs me anyway before she says, “What, no overnight bag?” I shrug. “James has stuff I can wear. We’re basically the same size.” Not really. Jamie and I have completely different bodies; our weights aren’t that different, and we might wear the same size jeans, if not for the fact that he’s three or four inches taller than me, but his shirts tend to pull too tight across my slightly broader shoulders and more muscular chest. Still, we’ve been sharing clothes for years. I cuff his jeans, he shrinks my shirts. It’s a thing. Besides, what’s the point of bringing clothes to sleep in, when I know I’ll barely sleep anyway? The five hours I managed to steal last night practically made me cry with relief, but I’m not an idiot. I’m refusing to get my hopes up that sleep will go back to being a regular thing for me. But Mom is looking too pleased with herself, so I’m not that surprised when she says, “Don’t worry about it. I have clothes for you at the apartment.” “Mom,” I say warningly. “Garen,” she says, in the same tone. I sigh and let her drag me out to the street to get a cab, but show my displeasure by spending the whole ride back to her apartment texting Jamie, who wants me to meet him back at Grand Central once dinner is over. True to meddlesome form, Mom has taken the liberty of spreading a host of beautiful new clothes around the bedroom I claimed in her penthouse apartment when she moved there. All of the pricetags are turned carefully downward so I can’t see the cost of anything, but I can still see the labels. Yves St. Laurent. Hugo Boss. Roberto Cavalli. Christian Dior. Marc Jacobs. Apparently my mother assumes I won’t be graduating this spring after all, because this bitch has definitely spent my college tuition buying me a ton of shit I would never voluntarily wear. She has never looked prouder of herself. “Do you like them?” I scratch the back of my neck and admit, “Not really.” “Good,” Mom says, smirking at me. “You wear nothing but jeans, t-shirts, and boots. If you don’t like this outfit, that’s probably because it’s something more tasteful than you’d ever choose for yourself.” I scowl and say, “You know that Hugo Boss supplied uniforms for the Nazis, right? Hitler Youth, the SS, all of ‘em. And some dude who designed for Dior was filmed doing a drunken, anti-Semitic rant a few years ago. He said he loved Hitler.” Thank you, Nate, for your insistence on filling my head with useless fashion information during our brief conversation before the read-through. “I mean, I’ll wear it, if you want me to. I’m just saying… every single article of clothing on this bed was made possible by racial hatred and the attempted genocide of our people.” “I suppose you’re going to try to convince me that Brooks Brothers is run by Nazis, too?” she says dryly, handing me a pair of navy trousers. “Yes,” I say, somewhat desperately. “For fuck’s sake, Mom, can’t I just wear what I have on now? We’ll go to a diner or something, we don’t need to go anywhere nice.” She flings a pale blue button-down at me, then a tie. “Shut up and get ready. Our reservation is for eight o’clock.” Said reservation turns out to be at a restaurant situated in a luxury hotel in Midtown. From the moment we step through the door, I am uncomfortable, a feeling that only intensifies when we sit down at our table. Facial piercings and rocker-boy hairstyles don’t tend to go over too well in places like this, and the questioning looks from the other diners make it clear that they are as aware as I am of the fact that I’m a complete black sheep around here. Our waiter arrives before I’ve really had a chance to look at the menu. His French accent is thick and his tone sharp, but I’ve been speaking French for years now; I know for a fact that it doesn’t need to sound nearly as condescending as this guy has managed to make it sound as he says, “Welcome. What will you be having this evening?” “Um,” is all I can stupidly manage for a moment. I’d like to be having a moment to fucking think, but that does not appear to be on the menu. I don’t miss the way the waiter’s eyes flick upward in a half-roll. “What about the braised bass?” Mom suggests. I open my mouth to reply, but the waiter speaks over me, “Our bar au champagne et coquillages is a dish of braised striped bass, shellfish, and a champagne sauce.” His tone is somewhat demeaning, but not unfamiliar. Even in Brooks Brothers and J. Press, I’ve still got spiked hair and a lip ring, which means I still always get looks of disdain in establishments like this. Like a guy who rocks couldn’t possibly have good breeding. I respond in French, voice tight but pronunciation perfect, “Je sais ce que c'est, mais je vous remercie pour votre sollicitude. Je prendrai le turbot poêlé, et un autre verre d'eau, s'il vous plaît.” To his credit, the waiter takes my abrupt change of languages in stride. He turns to my mother and asks, “Et pour la dame?” “Ma mère ne parle pas français. Elle prendra le canard aux figues, et un verre de vin. Beaune 2004, s'il vous plait,” I say. He nods once, and I flash him a smile. “Merci.” Once he has left, I glance back at Mom and add, “You usually get the duck, right? I ordered you that and another glass of pinot noir.” “It seems like your French is still excellent. I take it your skills haven’t gone rusty, even though you haven’t taken classes or gone back to Paris anytime lately?” she says. I shrug. “Apparently not.” She takes a sip from her water glass, then pauses, her head cocked ever so slightly to the side. “Are you alright?” “Fine.” “Have you been sleeping well?” “No.” The truth is out before I can even remember that I want to lie. But now that I’ve verbalized it, I can’t exactly take it back. Even though I know that my disregard for etiquette won’t endear me to the waiter, I prop my elbows up on the table so that I can rub my face, trying to ease some of the tension away with my fingers. It doesn’t work, and Mom is still waiting for an explanation. I sigh. “This week has been rough. School, I guess. I’m trying to focus more in my classes, and I’m a little nervous about the role I got in the school play. I’m exhausted, that’s all.” They’re all half-truths. I have been trying to focus (on staying conscious) during my classes. I have been nervous (that some skank is trying to steal my not-boyfriend’s attention, even though he keeps half-flirting with me, like he did after he told me) about the role I got in the school play. I’m (angry and sad and lonely and) exhausted, that’s all. Mom buys it well enough, and we spend the rest of dinner bullshitting about my schoolwork, the play, Dad’s divorce, whatever. And I love my mom, but I’m still relieved when she hugs me goodbye and lets me clamber into a cab back to Grand Central. When I get back to the station, Jamie is waiting for me in the dining area. He’s sitting at a table, a half-eaten cupcake in front of him, scrolling through messages on his iPhone. Instead of saying hello, I swing a leg over him and sit down on his lap, facing him. He leans in to press a quick kiss to my grinning mouth, then says, “Hello, darling. Took you long enough to get here. I was starting to wonder if you’d decided to ditch me.” “And spend the whole night letting my mom grill me about school? Yeah, right. Now, be nice to me and tell me how much you’ve missed me.” “I’ve missed you very much,” he says solemnly. I wrap my arms around his neck and drag him properly upright so that I can hug him. “Tell me how awesome I am.” “You’re very awesome,” he says. “And gorgeous, good Lord. I had a bunch of things on the agenda for tonight, but now that you’re here, I kind of just want to take you back to my place and get you out of these nice clothes of yours. I like this tie.” “I’m glad. Maybe later I’ll use it to tie you to your bed while I fuck you senseless,” I say. Two tables away, a soccer mom clears her throat, and I swallow a laugh. Jamie and I have been talking dirty to each other in public since we were a pair of fifteen-year-old boarding school brats, and the reaction from strangers is always the same. A cleared throat, a cough, an exaggerated sigh; some way of saying, excuse me, but you’re in goddamn public right now. I push Jamie’s hair off his forehead and say, “It’s good to see you, James.” “You, too. You really do look good. Better than the last time I saw you, that’s for sure. Looks like you’re finally starting to get back to your normal weight and muscle tone, which is a nice change from that brief impersonation of a concentration camp victim you were doing in rehab,” he says, squeezing my upper arm. Humored, I stand up again and pull him to his feet. He slings an arm across my shoulders to lead me out of the station, and I can’t help but burrow deeper into his hold. Seeing Jamie again always feels like coming home; since I met him, his love and loyalty have been unwavering. I am sure of his friendship in a way I’ve never been sure of anyone else’s. The other people in my life always feels like they have one foot out the door, even Ben, who has protected me and chased me and supported me through every suckish thing about the past year. There’s no logic behind my certainty that everyone who loves me will leave, but that never makes me less certain, except with Jamie. I know he will always stay. “First thing’s first? Take me back to your apartment and lend me some fucking clothes. Mom decided I had to play dress-up before dinner tonight. I look like a tool,” I say. Jamie slips two fingers under the collar of my shirt to check the label, then snorts and says, “I have this same shirt, sweetheart. Hate to say it, but you’ll be as disappointed as ever with your options at my place.” That, it turns out, is a complete lie. Back at Jamie’s apartment—a gorgeous, modern loft all done up in colorblind coordination; white walls and carpet, black leather couch and chairs, glass and chrome tables— I find a neatly organized stash of my clothes hanging in his closet. I strip out of the Brooks Brothers trousers and J. Press shirt, tossing them onto the floor near the bed. Scowling, Jamie picks them up, brushes them off, and drapes them neatly over the back of his desk chair. After several minutes spent murmuring sweet nothings to the collection of nearly identical black v-neck t-shirts, I select one at random, pull it on, and steal a pair of Jamie’s jeans. I have to cuff them twice before they’re short enough for me, but that particular embarrassment is hidden by my boots, once I tug those back on. Jamie is lounging out on his bed, still wearing the jeans, button-down, tie, and wingtips he wore to meet me. At my blank expression, he rolls his eyes and stands, heading to the bathroom to mess himself up a little; he untucks his shirt and pops the first button, loosens his tie a little, and rakes his hands through his hair. He looks more like a disheveled prep school kid than anything, but that’s about as casual as Jamie gets—not exactly a match to my tight, borrowed jeans, worn-in v-neck, scuffed boots, and lip ring. “So,” I say, shadowing him into the bathroom, “where did you say we’re going tonight?” “I didn’t say.” He’s still frowning at his own reflection, carefully adjusting the untidiness of his hair. A pause, then he gives me a searching look. “I heard about this show I thought you might like.” “What, around here?” He snorts. “If by ‘here’ you mean ‘in this city.’ Not here here. Were you paying attention at all during the cab ride? Because newsflash, darling—I live in the fucking Upper East Side. So, no, I don’t think you’re going to be able to find a filthy hipster bar around here.” My heart quickens—I hate that. I lick my lips and echo, “A bar.” “Yeah,” he says, then, after a moment’s hesitation, “I know that’s kind of fucked, okay? To be bringing you out to a bar on the night when you’re celebrating your ninetieth day of sobriety. But I swear, I checked the place out first, and you’d be fine. They have a ton of non-alcoholic shit you can drink, and it’s not really a big drug hangout. I’ve been there a few times, and I’ve never seen anybody using anything. I just thought that you’d get a kick out of the place, because some of the bands are kind of cool.” “Plus, nothing beats getting jerked off by a dude with an ironic mustache tattoo on his finger. It’s an orgasm and a chance to bump up my indie street cred, all at once.” He hesitates again, then says, “We can go somewhere else, if you want.” “No,” I say quickly. “Jamie, you know me better than anybody. And if you think it’s the type of place I can handle hanging out without relapsing, I believe you. I trust you.” “I trust you. And you should trust you, too,” he says, eyes back on his own reflection.

The music on the stereo kicks over to a sickly sweet acoustic pop song that has me biting back a delighted laugh and looking around at Jamie, who is very purposefully not meeting my eyes in the mirror. I lean back against the counter and say, “God, I haven’t heard this song in years. Hey, Jamie. Know what was kind of hilarious?” “What?” he asks reluctantly, even though he already knows what I’m going to say. “That time in sophomore year when you thought you were in love with me because you’ve still never figured out the difference between ‘first love’ and ‘great sex’.” “That shit never happened. You’re lying, because you’re a drug addict, and that’s what you people do. I watch Intervention, I know how it is. Stop lying, Garen.” I poke him hard in the side, and we’re both grinning now, even though a dark red flush is creeping up into his skin, still darkly tanned from his summer in the Savannah sun. “It definitely happened, you know it did. For two weeks straight, all you wanted to do was fool around while this godawful song played in the background. I’m pretty sure you were giving me like, three blowjobs a day towards the end there.” “First of all, you’re making all of this up,” he lies, shoving at my shoulder as I move to stand behind him, my chin hooked over his shoulder so that I can watch both our reflections in the mirror. “Second of all, if this had happened, which it didn’t, it would’ve been four months in junior year, not two weeks in sophomore, you ass.” That should sober me up, but it just pulls another laugh from me. “What, seriously?” “Yes, seriously! I was obsessed with you for the entire fall semester of junior year. That’s why Kelsey broke up with me. She said—” He hitches his voice into an approximation of the breathy whine of his ex-girlfriend from Patton’s sister school, “‘All my friends say you’re in love with your roommate, and don’t get me wrong, it was totally hot to watch you guys make out at that party that one time, but I’ve walked in on you with his dick in your mouth like five times since then, and I’ve also come in once when he was actually doing you in the ass. I just can’t date a guy who is more interested in having his friend put it in him than he is in putting it in me.’ Little bitch. It was by far my most awkward breakup conversation. Anyway, shut up, I was trying to woo you.” “Really? ‘Cause it mostly just felt like you kept sucking me off to Sixpence None the Richer,” I say, but he continues to glare at me in the mirror. I slip my arms around his middle and pull him so that his back is pressed to my chest. Smiling against the edge of his jaw, I say, “Come on, I’m just dicking around. Don’t get mad at me, Jamie.” He sticks his tongue out at me, and because I know it’s just going to annoy him, I raise my head to sing softly into his ear, “--out on the moonlit floor, lift your open hand—” “I hate you.” “--strike up the band and make the fireflies dance, silver moon’s sparkling—” “I can’t wait until your inevitable overdose.” “--so kiss me.” He shrugs and says, “If you insist.” He turns to scoop me up and fling me over his shoulder—we nearly topple over, because Jamie may be bizarrely graceful, but he’s also too tall to have a normal center of gravity, and I’m fairly heavy—to cart me back out of the bathroom, down the hall to the living room. He drops me unceremoniously on the couch, and I’m already opening my grinning mouth to call him an asshole when he sinks down to cover my body with his own. Without preamble, I pull him down into a lazy kiss. The truth is this: I know I’m the closest Jamie has ever come to being in love, and that’s why I make fun of him for it. Until I moved—until I met Travis, that is—neither of us had ever really felt any genuine affection for the guys we’d slept with, except for each other. There have been times over the years—usually in brief flashes, like the way his eyes darken when I sing to him, or the way I can’t stop myself from climbing all over him whenever I see him, or the fact that we’ve never had a hookup that didn’t end with the half-whispered exchange of ‘I love you’s—when both of us have been tricked into thinking that our unimaginably close friendship is the same thing as being in love. It’s not, and even if it was, it would never be worth giving up what we already have. So, instead of doing the “best friends, boyfriends, exes, people who never speak again” thing, we stick to “best friends, people who fuck each other senseless, still best friends” thing. “You want to fuck before we go out?” Jamie murmurs against my mouth, already reaching for my belt. It’s not an unexpected offer; this is actually the longest we’ve ever gone without fucking, including the eight month lapse between the day we met and our first time. We stopped hooking up after I met Travis, with the exception of one handjob in his dorm last winter, right after I got kicked out, dumped Travis, and left Lakewood. I got drunk and cried afterward. It was awkward. Now, my throat tightens, and I grab his hands to stop him. He’s already hard, I can feel him against my thigh, but I’m not. For months now, there’s been some sort of… block. Something’s been off, only I can’t figure out what, so I can’t fix it. Fuck, even getting myself hard to jerk off has been about fifty-fifty lately, and the last thing I need is for my best friend to find out that I’m the only eighteen-year-old in the world who can’t seem to get off normally anymore. He is looking down at me with questioning eyes—makes sense, I pretty much never turn down sex with him—but I do my best to play it off by pushing him off me and into a sitting position. I sink onto my knees on the floor in front of him, looking up at him through my eyelashes and saying, “Kind of just want to suck you. Is that cool?” “The coolest,” he agrees, already unzipping his jeans, and I find myself thankful for the fact that my oral fixation isn’t exactly a secret. I hook my fingers over the top of his jeans and pull them down to his knees, then press a few rough kisses to his naked hips. This is the first time I’ve seen his (unfairly big) dick in about a year, but I still only take a few seconds to appreciate the view before I lick my lips and duck down to taste him. He tangles his fingers in my hair and presses deeper into my mouth; the head of his dick hits the back of my throat, and I pull off, coughing. Obviously unimpressed, he raises his eyebrows, and I punch him in the stomach. He scowls at me and rubs at his stomach with the hand that’s not already wrapped around his dick. “Ass. So, since when do you have a gag reflex? I could’ve sworn we trained that out of you when we were freshmen.” “I don’t, and we did, I’m just out of practice. This is the longest I’ve gone without a dick in my mouth since I was fourteen. I haven’t blown anybody since the day I let Seth—” I clamp my mouth shut around the rest of the sentence, but the damage is already done. Jamie’s jaw is set as he asks, “Hayden?” “No, one of the other Seths we know, you cunt,” I say. A normal guy’s erection might be flagging by now, but Jamie is still stroking himself, which I can only assume means that I’ll get to continue, as long as I make quick work of the story. I sigh. “When I bailed on Connecticut for the second time, right before rehab. I went to go see Seth for more coke, but I was running low on cash at that point—also, side note? Apparently that’s the breaking point for my dad. Seriously, the man put enough of a monthly allowance in my bank account to fund three and a half years of fake IDs, drinking binges, and your bail that one time in Georgia, but I go and get one little coke addiction, and then it’s like I’m cut off from—” Jamie interrupts, “Anderson. Less rich white kid problems, more telling me how Seth Hayden’s dick ended up in your mouth. And then more shutting the fuck up and putting my dick back in your mouth?” “Right,” I say, nodding and wiping my now sweaty palms on my—Jamie’s—jeans. “Uh, so, long story short, I couldn’t afford the drugs, so he let me pay with a blowjob instead.” “Seth isn’t even gay,” Jamie says. I shrug and try not to think of Travis, hanging outside the drama room and flirting with Joss Pryce. “Yeah, well, lots of guys aren’t gay, up until I offer to swallow, and then suddenly the Kinsey Scale doesn’t seem too relevant anymore. Whatever. I think with Seth, it was more about, um… it wasn’t fucking me that got him off, I guess. It was the idea that he had something I wanted. Something I couldn’t deal with not having. And, I mean, Seth’s always hated me, so…” Not, of course, as much as he hates Jamie. But to be fair, I’m not the one who put a bullet in him. “G,” Jamie says, reaching for my hand—his other is still jerking off, which is actually kind of impressive. “Do you want to talk?” I roll my eyes and say, “Yeah, sure. And then after we’re done talking, I’ll go back to eating your pussy, since that’s what I must be doing down here, because God knows nobody with a penis would rather talk about feelings and sexual trauma than get off. I don’t want to talk about my problems, Jamie, I want to suck your dick about my problems. So shut the fuck up, stop beating off, and let me have this so we can go out.” With a scowl and an eyeroll to match mine, he lets me take him in my mouth again, and this time, I have no trouble deep-throating him. I chalk that up to a win, and neither of us mentions Seth again. I try to pull out a few of my better tricks, if only to make up for my total failure of a start, and soon, Jamie’s knotting his hands in my hair and all but fucking my mouth, his breath coming out in hitches and gasps now. I’m half-hard, not enough to want to draw attention to it, but enough that my jeans are uncomfortably tight. I reach down to briefly palm my crotch, then run a hand—the hand that’s not busy playing with his balls—up Jamie’s thigh, scraping my nails into his skin. It’s that little twinge of pain that sends him over the edge. He’s still yanking on my hair as he comes, but one of his hands has dropped onto mine to tangle our fingers together; even with his cum sliding down my throat, I can’t help but roll my eyes. Dude gets so handsy when we screw around. He hauls me up to kiss me, his tongue slick in my mouth, tasting himself on me. He nips at my lower lip and brushes my hair away from my face, staring hard into my eyes as he says, “You give the best head of anyone I’ve ever been with.” It’s probably true, but what he really means is, I’m sorry I pushed you to talk about your issues. I’m here if you need me. “You bet your sweet ass I do,” I say, though I know he’s hearing, You’re forgiven, but we’re still not talking about this. “I love the way you look when you’re sucking me off. Seriously, if it were possible, I’d spend days at a time just staring at the way your lips look when they’re stretched over my cock.” I don’t want to go out tonight. The look on your face scares me, and I’m afraid that if we go out, I might lose track of you, and if you’re left alone, you could relapse. I’m not going to jeopardize your sobriety just for the chance to rub up against some slut in a downtown bar. “Jamie, you’re so fucking hot.” Shut up. We’re going out, because I’m fine. If things get bad, I trust you to look after me. He brushes another kiss across my lips and says, “Love you, G.” “Love you, too.” Those are the only parts without a hidden meaning. During the cab ride to the bar, I give my dick a silent but still very stern talking-to. Listen, kid. It’s time to man the fuck up. I don’t know what your problem has been lately, and I don’t know why you’re not cooperating, but you need to get over it. This is supposed to be fun for everyone, but if you’re going to just sit there all night, ignoring whatever new friends I find for you, I’m going to be pissed. Yes, it sucks that we don’t get to fuck Travis anymore. Yes, it sucks that rehab had so many open-door, anti-jerk-off policies. Yes, it sucks that neither Seth nor the random truck stop dude were interested in helping us get off after they did. Whatever. Get over it. You haven’t been this useless to me since I was ten, so don’t fucking start now. “G, you alright?” Jamie says, and my eyes snap towards him. “You look like you’re annoyed.” “Nah, I’m fine,” I say, smiling easily at him. He smiles back at me, then turns his focus once more to the world outside the window. Seriously though, dick, I will hate you forever. Getting into the bar is not a problem. I’ve kept the fake ID that brands me as twenty-two, even though I swore to my dad that I lost it. Jamie and I make it past the burly man at the door with no trouble, and once inside, I take a deep, steadying breath. We get drinks from the bar—a beer for Jamie, a bottled water for me— and push our way back to a table by what might be the dance floor. There are drinks everywhere. Which, okay, no shit. Of course there are drinks everywhere, I knew there would be—it’s a bar, for fuck’s sake—but I’m still vaguely unprepared for the pulsing sense of want I feel when some drunk coed saunters by me and slops some beer from her bottle onto the floor. Even from six feet up, I can smell the liquid on the ground. A guy walks by with a plastic cup of clear liquid, ice, and lime; it must be a G&T, because all I can smell is that Christmas pine scent of gin. Another girl—a Long Island Iced Tea. Vodka, tequila, triple sec, gin, rum. Fuck. I almost moan. “Are you okay?” Jamie asks, settling his hand into the small of my back. I force my brightest smile and say, “I’m fine.” He looks unconvinced, so I settle for a distraction. “Are we looking for people to play with tonight, or are you seeing somebody these days?” “Shouldn’t you have asked me that earlier, before the portion of the evening where you swallowed a pretty substantial amount of my cum?” he asks. I shrug, and he grins, probably interpreting it as the has that ever stopped me before? gesture I intended it as. After a moment, he adds, “I’m seeing someone, but we’re not exclusive yet.” The accompanying eyeroll says there’s a story attached to the comment. “Do you want to be exclusive?” I ask. He shrugs. “I asked him to be, but he says he needs some time to think about it. Maybe it’s because I’d be his first boyfriend or whatever, but I honestly kind of get the impression that he’s more interested in his best friend than he is in me. He’s already copped to liking the guy, and I don’t mind that at all. God knows I made enough of my boyfriends and girlfriends put up with my weird crush on you all through freshman year.” I stick my tongue out at him, and he returns the face before continuing, “Point is, if he’d rather date his friend than me, he should just tell me he only wants the sex, not the relationship.” “Sounds like a dick,” I say, and he laughs. I take a sip from my water bottle. “So, question still stands. Wanna play?” “Always.” “You in the mood for a guy or a girl tonight?” I ask. Unbidden, the image of Joss flirting with Travis rises in my mind. I make a face and take another, longer sip of water. “Well, I’ve already had you, so I might as well collect the full set. Girl, I think. Ideally, a blond with great legs,” he says. He pauses to take a sip of his beer, then flashes me a smile. “The longer the legs, the better they look wrapped around my waist.” I smirk back at him, then begin my search of the room. The band playing on the main stage isn’t great; the drummer is good, and the bass player is cute, but it’s hard for me to enjoy any band that has a guitar player who’s worse than I am. Still, the lack of good music makes it easier to focus on finding a decent pair for us. There are a few girls clustered near the speakers, and some of them are definitely eye-fucking the both of us, but there’s not a dick to be had among the group. In a twist on the same problem, a pair of guys who’ve just come in the front door are staring blatantly at Jamie’s crotch, but one has a seriously busted face, and the other’s too effeminate to be my type. It’s a gamble to expect that I’ll be able to fuck anybody tonight; I need to at least find the hottest guy I can manage. Besides, Jamie wants a girl tonight. “Hey,” Jamie says in my ear. “Turn ninety degrees to your right and check out the hipster couple by the bar. The girl with the flower-print dress, guy with the Buddy Holly glasses and embarrassing studded belt. What do you think?” I lean my elbows back on the table behind us and do a slow scan of the room, letting my eyes linger on the couple he must be referring to. I can’t actually see the girl’s face; she’s turned away from me, folded into her boyfriend’s arms and chatting away with her mouth against the front of his navy v-neck. The boyfriend meets my eyes over her shoulder, flushes dark red, and quickly looks down. Cute. I turn back to Jamie. “Good call. Girl show any interest yet?” “Oh, yeah. A very purposeful lip bite. And her boy’s checked out your ass twice.” “It’s a good ass to check out,” I agree. I pause to drain what’s left of the water in my bottle and say, “Who are we this time?” “Your name is Greg, and you’re twenty years old. You’re studying to be a photojournalist, but you’re taking the semester off from art school to do an internship with an indie record label, traveling around the country and taking pictures of their bands. You have a girlfriend who you’ve been dating since you were a freshman in high school, and you’ve never done anything with another guy, but you’ve always been a little curious about what it would be like. Me?” “You’re my older brother, your name is Jack, and you’re twenty-two. You did your undergrad at Yale, in Environmental Studies, and you’ve just started your first semester in law school. Someday, you want to enact legislation that would provide further protection for endangered species.” “Which ones?” “All of ‘em. But your favorites are polar bears, and when you think about the icecaps melting, you sometimes tear up. You were engaged, but you ended things over the summer because you realized she wasn’t The One.” I toss my empty bottle into the nearest garbage can and incline my head towards the bar. “Still so thirsty. Wanna head to the bar?” “But of course,” Jamie says, gesturing for me to lead the way. I make my way across the room gradually. When we’re feet away form the bar, the couple breaks apart, almost involuntarily, leaving a small gap between them. I wedge myself into it and lean across the bar to order another bottle of water for me and another beer for Jamie, who waves his wristband at the bartender’s prompting gaze. Once I’ve paid, I look around at the couple, now standing awkwardly on either side of me. I feign surprise and say, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get in your way.” “It’s alright,” the girl says, eyes on Jamie even as she says to me, “I really like your boots.” “Thanks!” I say brightly, even though it’s obvious that she’s only extending the compliment as a way of initiating conversation with us. Like anyone has ever gotten thrilled over a pair of unlaced combat boots. I extend a hand to her. “I’m Greg. This is my brother, Jack.” “Danielle,” she says, looking up at Jamie through her eyelashes. A beat passes, then she adds, “This is Patrick, my boyfriend.” I turn towards the boy, who smiles shyly at me. I give him a very slow, deliberate once-over that leaves him blushing once more, then look back at Danielle. “How did you guys hear about this show.” “My friend Chelsea knows the bass player. You?” “My girlfriend heard about it at school—she goes to FIT. She couldn’t come tonight, so I was going to just stay home, but Jack needed to blow off some steam, so we came out anyway,” I say. “Second week of school and I’m already bombed with work,” Jamie adds, smoothing any trace of Georgia drawl out of his voice. He’s so much better at faking the Yankee accent now than he was when we were younger; at Patton, whenever he tried to imitate my voice, he came out with this awful New York slur that made him sound like a drunken Manhattan cab driver. Danielle says something to him that I don’t care enough to listen to, and he launches into a long line of bullshit about his fake law school career. I turn my focus to Patrick, who very quickly averts his eyes from staring at the way my t-shirt stretches across my chest. I ask him if he goes to school—he does—and what he’s studying—photography, for real. I pretend to be thrilled at that, and steer the conversation towards my fake internship before he can ask what kind of camera I use, or some other dumb question I’m not qualified to lie about. He listens to me talk, staring at my mouth the whole time, and when he reciprocates with a story about one of his professors, I step closer. He stops speaking suddenly, bewildered at my invasion of his personal space. I brush my knuckles across his in what might be a vaguely apologetic gesture and say, “Sorry, it’s crazy loud in here, I was having trouble hearing you. What did you say?” He restarts the boring story, though he is accommodating enough of my pretend hearing deficiency to step even closer. By the time the story is over, our torsos are practically aligned. I can already feel him getting hard against my hip, and suddenly, a deep shudder runs up the length of my spine and closes around my throat. Get off me, I think. Get off, I’m fucking sober, I don’t want whatever it is that you’re trying to sell me. He hasn’t made a single move to slip a bag of cocaine from his pocket to mine, or buy me a drink, or anything, but it’s just a matter of time before the drugs come out. It has to be. That’s how this works, right? That’s how it worked with that guy, the one at the truck stop. That’s how it was when I was on my hands and knees for Seth fucking Hayden, letting him drill into me so I could get a line. What else am I good for? What else is this worth? I don’t remember what the point of sex is, if it’s not about making a deal. Patrick is staring at me, uncertain, and I force myself to snap out of it. It’s fine. I can do this. I hooked up with Jamie earlier, didn’t I? He never expected anything from me, so this guy might not either. I twist around—press my ass against him as I do so, earn a sharp intake of breath for my trouble—to say to Jamie, “I’m going outside for a smoke. You alright here?” “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Either of you going with him?” Jamie says, glancing at the couple. Danielle seems startled to remember that her boyfriend is here, particularly since I can see from here that Jamie’s hand has managed to make its way onto her thigh, halfway up her skirt. At my questioning look, she shakes her head quickly and says, voice faint, “No, I’m fine here. I’ll just wait with Jack a-and—” “You wanna come with me?” I murmur over my shoulder to Patrick, who nods jerkily. I throw myself into the crush of bar patrons, hooking two fingers over the waistband of his jeans to drag him after me. I’m almost positive that smokers are supposed to use the main door and stand in the fenced off section of sidewalk, but near the bathrooms, there’s a side door that’s propped open. We slip through it, out into an empty alley that’s blocked at both ends, a fence at one side and a dumpster at the other. I lounge back against the brick wall of the club and fake a stretch that leaves a half-inch of my flat stomach exposed between the hem of my t-shirt and the top of my jeans. Patrick has to blink several times before he can make himself stop staring at it. He glances up, catches me looking, and I shift my eyes quickly to the ground, biting back a smile. He laughs. “What’s that look for?” “Nothing,” I say, softening my voice to little more than a whisper. Pretending to be some shy guy who’s never touched a dick except his own is pretty easy; right now, I’m just pretending I’m a taller, sexier, manlier version of Nate Holliday. “It’s just… my girlfriend would kill me if she knew what I was thinking about right now.” And cue the bedroom eyes. Patrick shuffles closer until he’s standing in front of me and flattens his palms on the brick wall behind me, one hand above each of my shoulders. “What are you thinking about?” I reach up and brush my fingers along the length of his arm, finally curling them over his bicep and digging my nails into his sleeve like I just can’t help myself. I still don’t say anything. He leans in, just close enough that our noses brush. “Greg… have you ever kissed another guy?” I hesitate for one, two, three seconds, then shake my head. “Ever wanted to?” In answer, I shift both my hands to his waist and pull him towards me so that our mouths crash together. He melts against my body, and I do my best to make my hands seem shaky and hesitant as I move them across the smooth planes of his back. He’s a decent kisser—a little too much tongue, but not enough to really kill it for me. And he gets right to the point; within a minute, he’s grinding his hips against mine so hard that the bricks behind me are scraping my back raw through my t-shirt. Inhaling sharply, as though summoning all my courage, I slip a hand between us and give a gentle squeeze to the bulge in the front of his skinny jeans. “Patrick, I—I want to—I don’t—” He silences me with another kiss, both hands jumping from the wall to his studded belt. He grabs my wrist and all but shoves my hand down the front of his jeans, letting out a small groan of encouragement when I curl my fingers around his dick. I twist my wrist just so and whisper, “Am I doing this right?” Of course I’m doing it right. What am I, new? But Patrick nods sharply and fumbles for my belt, pushing my jeans down over my hips as he mutters, “Yeah, that’s great.” I’m hard. Thank you, God, I am fucking hard. He jerks me off roughly, with the abandon and enthusiasm that I pretty much only get from straight boys. I put on a show for him, practically keening with every snap of his wrist, digging the nails of my free hand into the small of his back under his t-shirt. He keeps thrusting his hips forward, which makes it a little harder to move my hand—which is fucking obnoxious enough, given how tight his jeans are—but whatever. I think he’s mostly trying to get off as quickly as possible, terrified that his girlfriend will come outside and find him fucking some dude’s fist. He’s hot and all, but I’m not fourteen anymore, so a handjob isn’t really cutting it. I slip my hand away from the small of his back, down the back of his jeans to squeeze his ass. His response is a gentle tug on my lip ring with his teeth, which oh fuck feels nice. I mutter, “God, you’ve got a nice ass.” “You wanna fuck it?” Huh. That was easy enough. I give a frantic nod, careful not to let the desperate virgin routine slip. “Yeah. I don’t have a condom, though, I wasn’t planning on—” “I’ve got one in my wallet, it’s fine, come on,” he says. I pull his wallet out of his back pocket, fighting another surge of revulsion that threatens to make me go soft—this is too close to what I was afraid of. Just touching this cheap piece of leather where he keeps all his money makes this act feel so much closer to the way I whored myself out last summer. I find the condom stashed behind his driver’s license. While I tear it open and roll it over my dick, he shoves his jeans and briefs halfway down his thighs and reaches back with spit covered fingers to prep himself. I take a minute or two to enjoy the show as he fucks himself with his fingers, but we’ve been gone for a while now, and the last thing I need is for his girlfriend and my “brother” to finish with the hetero-humping and come outside and leave me with a serious case of blue balls. I grab him by the shoulders and reverse our positions so he’s facing the bricks. I open my mouth to ask if he’s ready, but he reaches back to line me up, then sinks back swiftly enough to leave me balls-deep in one motion. Well, alright then. Clearly I’m not the only one who’s been pretending to have a lot less experience with banging guys than I really do. Time is sorta of the essence right now, so I fuck him quickly and efficiently, and I’m feeling generous, so I actually bother to give him a reach-around. Thankfully, the music from inside the club is thumping loudly enough to drown out most of his noises, and when I press a hand over his mouth to muffle his cries when he comes, it’s mainly so I don’t have to hear that irritating grunting. I’m not too far behind, and I’m planning to just make quick work of it from here, but he grabs my hips and-- It’s to pull me deeper into him, I think. He must be trying to help me, or something, trying to get me to fuck him harder so I can get off, but it does the complete opposite. I can’t feel any part of my body except for my hips, where he’s reaching back to grip me. I can’t focus on anything but his fingers digging into me with bruising strength.Suddenly, I am not in an alley, and I’m not with Patrick, and it isn’t now. I’m home, or at least, at the old house, in my old bedroom, and it’s right after the last time I had sex—and I mean really had sex, not those coke-fueled seconds of prostitution in June. It’s mid-May, and Travis and Ben and Alex and everybody are at their prom, and I’m home and angry, and Dave’s there. He fucks me, roughly and without asking, and I’m not saying yes, but I’m not saying no, either, I’m just kind of lying there and wishing I was anywhere else. And it’s not as bad as it was the first time he fucked me, the time when I really said no, the time I tried to get away, but it’s also not as good as it would be if he would just stop. He finishes, and I don’t come, but we both shrug it off, because who cares if I get off, as long as Dave does? And then I’m in his face, and I’m hoping he hits me, but still kind of stunned when he starts and doesn’t stop. It’s not what I need anymore, not what I want, not that sort of hurt that makes me feel better and helps me know I’m alive. It’s the kind of hurt that is my ribs cracking and my leg breaking and my fingers getting smashed and my face, god, my face, him hitting me over and over again. There’s blood, everywhere. That’s the only thing I’m really aware of after a while, that there is blood in my eyes, and I can taste it in my mouth, and all I want is for someone to come home and stop this. All I want is for my dad or Travis or somebody to walk in and make it stop, but they don’t. I can’t even be sure I’m awake anymore, but I must be, because why else would I be able to feel that Dave’s hands are no longer fists on my face, they’re splayed open across my hips as he drags me off the floor and back up onto my bed. After a while, I can’t even yell anymore, I just have to disappear. Patrick digs his fingers in again. “I can’t do this.” I don’t realize I’ve spoken—or that I’ve pulled out, that I’m going soft, that I feel like I’m seconds away from actually blacking out—until Patrick turns around, eyes sharp and confused. “Greg? What’s wrong?” “I can’t do this,” I repeat, louder. My stomach is rolling, like I’m about to be sick, and I have no idea why. I don’t know what the fuck that was, or why I’m feeling numb all over, except for the ghost of hands that left my body months ago. But there is a part to play, and I can’t fuck this up now. I strip off the condom and flick it towards the dumpster, tucking myself back into my pants and zipping them back up. Patrick’s eyes are wide, and I don’t really care if he’s offended, but there’s something… wrong. There’s an ache in my chest, the same creeping sense of guilt and shame and awfulness that I’ve been feeling too often lately. I’m still waiting for the prompt, the moment when he gives me drugs, or money, or something. There has to be an exchange, because otherwise, why would I feel so fucking cheap right now? Sharing my discomfort is the quickest way to get rid of him, so I blink down at the ground like I’m shell-shocked and say, “Fuck, my girlfriend will kill me if she ever finds out about this.” “Sh-She doesn’t have to find out, man,” Patrick says, shooting me a sideways glance. “I mean, neither does Danielle.” I shake my head quickly and widen my eyes at him. “Of course not. I’m not going to tell her, if that’s what you’re worried about. But we should probably go back inside, I mean, if you don’t want her to—” “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.” He follows me back to the club door, though he can’t stop himself from yanking me into one last kiss just before I open the door, leaving me feeling sicker than ever by the time we get back inside and find our companions seated at the bar. Danielle is smoothing her dress down over her thighs almost compulsively; the collar of Jamie’s shirt is popped, though it still doesn’t do much to hide the bite mark on the side of his neck. “It’s getting late,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder, “and I’ve got a ton of case readings left for Monday. You cool with heading out?” “Yeah, totally,” I say. I turn to face Danielle and say brightly, “It was great meeting you.” “You too, Greg,” she says, enveloping me in a hug. She smells like Ralph Lauren Polo Black cologne, and I can’t help but smirk at her boyfriend over her shoulder. He reddens, still looking pissed off and confused, but when I release his girlfriend and step forward, he accepts my handshake. God, his hand is fucking sticky. If his girl figures everything out, it’s his own damn fault. Jamie repeats my motions—the hug, then the handshake, and while Danielle seems unable to speak to him, Patrick says, “Have a good night.” “I think we all did,” Jamie says, slinging an arm around my shoulders and heading for the door. Seconds after we step out into the warm September night air, he releases me, lights a cigarette, and says, “How was he?” “He was alright. Fucked him in the alley.” I don’t tell him I never finished. “Her?” “I locked us in the bathroom and bent her over the sink. Dresses are so convenient that way.” “Skinny jeans aren’t,” I say, plucking the cigarette from his fingers to take a drag from it. He doesn’t respond, and when I look at him, he’s watching me carefully. I roll my eyes and pass the cigarette back. He knows me too well to play off whatever expression I’ve got on my face, so I say, “I’m fine, Jamie. It was just… weird, I guess. I haven’t gotten laid since before rehab, since back when I was still using. It felt different. That’s all.” His face falls. “I’m sorry. If I’d realized it would be weird for you, I wouldn’t have suggested we play.” “I suggested it, not you. And playing wasn’t the problem. It was the fact that he was… I don’t know. He just wasn’t that good, okay? Can we drop it?” I say. This is stupid, and I’m starting to get a little embarrassed. Who freaks out like this because of something as simple as sex? I’ve done this literally hundreds of times, possibly thousands at this point, so why is it suddenly going so wrong? When the hell did I stop being Garen fucking Anderson? Jamie presses a very soft kiss to my temple and suggests, “Want me to make it up to you? We’ll go back to my place, shower off the stains of our sins, and I’ll suck you off while we watch Walk the Line or something. It’ll be just like prep school.” I sneak another drag off his cigarette, trying to act like I’m considering the idea for a minute or two before I say, “Maybe later. I kind of want to stay out a little longer. You hungry?” “I could eat. Pizza?” We set off down the street.